Sonnet 520

We are all different and yet still the same
Here from that common mold of human kind;
Clear differences a boon and yet a bane
That can both link us and still cleave in time.
We shadow dark the strange of mortal thought
While from the strange new innovation springs,
Group thinking oft to ride the orthodox
While relishing the gifts invention brings.
We criticize the things we cannot grasp,
Disparaging van dreams not understood
Yet when impossible from whims amass,
We swiftly praise the strains of common good.
So quick to measure by some pious score;
All men the same, but clearly, some the more.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 519

So may I praise what fortune has begot,
Indeed all blessings that befall me here;
Yet still I mourn of prizes that I sought
Which did evade my grasp; Oh things so dear!
It is but nature to assail the more
Well knowing that indulgence is a sword,
Two sided thus, it may the self yet score
Where even prayers might seem but cursed words.
For what to gain by gorging to excess,
Or loving greater than the heart can serve,
Or wielding wealth to flaunt in proud largesse,
Professing fame far lofty than deserved?
The greater good lies in the lesser treasure,
And heaven’s sun more bright in meted measure.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 518

I write this now amidst the sting of tears
Peine forte et dure now heavy on my breast;
Scant hope remains within these growing fears—
An agony no pain of death could best.
Yes, you have made the choice to leave me now,
Here with the pit of winter drawing nigh;
The slinking smoke from chimneys quats and bows
In deference to a godforsaken sky.
For what remains when Heaven’s light is gone,
When strickened prayers beseech stern ears of stone?
The tarot ten of swords now seeming drawn
And I prostrate upon misfortune thrown.
A prisoner chained and sentenced here to death;
Yet still your servant to my final breath.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 517

Winter’s wrath returns with coldness found
To puff the feathers of dear birds not flown,
His pallid cloak enshrouds the silent ground
On which, near past, were sweetest flowers grown.
The sun now weak, his feeble eye looks on
Broad barren fields once burgeoned with ripe grain,
That golden bounty rich, now fairly gone
Surrendered to that bleak and embattled plain.
Though girded gold and green must surely pass,
So marking thus in seasoned ordered time
That nothing good or bad shall ever last—
No blessing bright, more yet no callous crime:
As ice shall melt when vernal voices sing,
So from dark dirges hope shall ever spring.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.